


Bury Your Mind (In Thistles And Blood)

by ofoldvalyrians (everybodyhasroots)



Category: A Song Of Ice And Fire (George R. R. Martin), Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Multi, Sansa is a little bitcher than canon, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 21:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12044424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybodyhasroots/pseuds/ofoldvalyrians
Summary: "While you were off, where? Travelling the world?"Arya stays quiet, but her mind is burning.





	Bury Your Mind (In Thistles And Blood)

⠀⠀⠀"While you were off, where? Travelling the world?" Sansa asks, and she spits it, spits it with such loathing Arya actually wants to take a step back. 

⠀⠀⠀There's that telltale buzzing at the edge of her mind, like a fire just beginning to burn, but it's Sansa's next accusation - because that's what they are, really, accusations - that sends the flames roaring inside her.

⠀⠀⠀"You never would have survived what I survived."

⠀⠀⠀She says it with such an air of childish indignity that, just for a second, she stops being Lady Stark. She is stupid Sansa again, bratty and selfish and endlessly swooning over knights glanced in silver, and she is scruffy little Arya with the wolf's blood in her veins. Her fingers itch to take a hank of Sansa's auburn hair spilling over her shoulders and yank it like she used to, but instead she makes herself think.

⠀⠀⠀She thinks of Jon Snow. She thinks of Needle, the glare of blue Valyrian steel that is Jon's smile, and the way he used to muss her hair (because it would make nought difference) and smile and call her 'little sister.' She thinks of watching him ride away from her carriage window, face pressed against the cold glass and hammering furiously because her mother wouldn't let her see him off.

⠀⠀⠀She thinks of Mycah. Thirteen, ginger, with gangly limbs and gawking eyes. She thinks of sparring with him by the Trident, thinks of hunting for Rhaegar's rubies in the soft soil. She thinks of his body, cut jaggedly in half, rode down by the Hound.

⠀⠀⠀She thinks of Syrio, and men made of water, and mcalm as still water' means everything to her now when her breath trembles with anger and injustice in her throat. She thinks of his smile and dancing clothes, light leggings and a tunic of silk. She thinks of wooden swords and white cloaks stained with blood. She thinks of a stick man in boiled leather and silks against a man glanced head-to-ankle in pretty white armour that shone like the foam of cresting waves.

⠀⠀⠀She thinks of fleeing King's Landing that day. She thinks of Flea Bottom and stews made of rats. She thinks of nicking the heads off pigeons with her skinny little sword, of plucking them herself until her fingers were raw and bleeding. 

⠀⠀⠀She sees the Sept of Baelor. And there she is, on the statue of Baelor the Blessed himself, spectating. She sees Sansa with her light, pretty dress and clean skin and braided hair like a crown over her beautiful smile. She sees Joffrey and his feverish blue eyes and a smile with lips that looked like soft worms. She sees her father clearest of all. She thinks of his smile and the weight of his arm around her narrow shoulders. She thinks of words of winter and proud looks and a sure, steady acceptance that she will never be Sansa. It is all she is thinking of when the sword descends on his neck.

⠀⠀⠀She thinks of Yoren, and how his hand felt on her arm as he dragged her numb body through that writhing crowd into theat little alley. An odd feeling came over her when she recalled Septa Mordane's cautions of rapers and poachers in the Capital. (She only ever really warned Sansa, because what raper would look twice at Arya Horseface?) She thinks of how his knife felt as it sawed off chunks and chunks of hair, and thinks of how they floated dreamily to the floor like raven feathers.

⠀⠀⠀She thinks of Harrenhal, and Gregor Clegane. A knight, they called him, and what a nauseating jest it was. She thinks of squirming rats and torches and iron buckets strapped to the chest. She thinks of the cold terror that descended upon her, not just for herself, but for Gendry and Hot Pie too, when Gregor Clegane looks at them. Cold eyes moving over the crowd of children before deciding which will die.

⠀⠀⠀She thinks of Jaqen H'ghar, and he is an odd thought. She thinks of burning cages and water and an accent spiced with the tongues of the Free Cities. She thinks of names that mean swords drawn in the air. The Tickler. Amory Lorch. But her third name disappears like melting steel, because he is gone already, out the gates, gone, gone, gone, gone to kill her Robb, gone to kill her mother. 

⠀⠀⠀She thinks of the Brotherhood Without Banners. She thinks of the Hound, of fire and caves and a false sense of justice. When he kills Beric Dondarrion, she knows the gods are false. The Hond has Mycah's blood on his hands, yet Beric lays bleeding on the rocky floor. "BURN IN HELL," she had screamed at him, and he had only laughed as if it were the funniest jape in the world. And when Beric comes back, she finds her thoughts wondering. "Can you bring back a man without a head?" she had asked, and the smoke from the fire brought unrested tears to her eyes. But it didn't work that way, sweet one, and Arya slept that night with the cold ghosts of the gods she had once believed in pressing down on her.

⠀⠀⠀She thinks of Gendry, of blacksmiths and eyes like the ocean and the warmth that spread to her fingers when she stood beside him. She thinks of his words - "I've never had a family before." I can be your family, she'd replied, but the words were hollow, because Arya Stark was a dead girl herself, unsuited to be family to anyone.

⠀⠀⠀She thinks of the Hound, of the shameful terror that had siezed her when he grabbedd her that night. She thinks of Mycah again, because he was her friend, he was her friend, he was her friend. She holds the rock over him and she was going to do it, truly, but he'd woken and her courage had failed her. She walked away with the hurt, accusing glare of Mycah on her back and guilt like a frenzy in her gut. What were two broken hands if an innocent boy was avenged?

⠀⠀⠀She thinks of the Red Wedding. She thinks of Grey Wind's howls and knives raining down like a hailstorm in the flickerinf firelight. She thinks of screams and thuds from inside. She thinks of his words - "it's too late" - and the blow on the back of her head. She thinks of when she wakes, and she's slumped into him, and she wants nothing more than to wriggle away but then she sees it, and can do nothing but watch as Robb, her big brother Robb who teased her and pulled her braids, is mutilated and paraded to jeers and jests. She cannot see her mother, but she sees the flag. The direwolf sigil has caught alight, burning in the shivering night air, and that is all she needs.

⠀⠀⠀She thinks of The Hound again, because the Sandor she knew before was not the same one she left for dead at the bottom of the hill. She thinks of Brienne of Tarth, and at the mention of her mother she is gone, lost, frenzied. The Hound says he is watching over her, and, bizarrely, he is right. She remembers the sting of steel on steel, grunts and screams and clashes, and she remembers him falling, tumbling, dying. She remembers crouching beside him as he talks, and try as she might, she cannot dredge up any emotion whatsoever. He talks about Sansa, and she is blank. Sansa Stark is a stranger to her. She skins him of his silver before she leaves him. Dead men don't need silver, after all.

⠀⠀⠀She thinks of Braavos. She thinks of the Kindly Man and the Waif and the hall of faces. She wondered, at first, if she'd stumble upon anybody she knew. Perhaps one day she'd put on their face, if that were the case, and look in a looking glass. She feels like weeping as she stands among them - all those faces, all those lives - because being anyone but Arya Stark sounded like everything her weak little heart could hope for at the time.

⠀⠀⠀She thinks of Meryn Trant, and she wonders as she slices her blade over his throat if this was how he killed Syrio. He didn't bleed water, she noticed absently, only blood. It choked the air as it spilled down his front and dribbled down his cheeks from where his eyes used to be. He was nothing, no one, and yet Syrio was dead.

⠀⠀⠀She thinks of blindness, and this clings to her firmly. She thinks of darkness, utter darkness, a new and terrifying oblivion none of Septa's or Father's or even the Hound's lessons could have prepared her for. She thinks of her skin and ears and nose becoming her eyes, thinks of bruises and blood and aches that carried into next week. She thinks of peeling her lids open and seeing for the first time in a lifetime.

⠀⠀⠀She thinks of The Waif. This is a strange thought. The Waif detested her, but in a way, Arya owes her her life. Who would she be, if she hadn't been Mercy, or Blind Beth, or Cat of the Canals? Who would she be if that knife wasn't driven and twisted into her stomach, if she hadn't jumped into water that seared her wounds? She thinks of Lady Crane, murdered for her kindness. She thinks of running, of stooping to pick up Needle. Underground, the only light is the candle to her left. The Waif laughs at her blade. That won't help you, she had said cruelly as she started forward. No, Arya thought, and her hands were red with blood as she lifted her sword to her face before bringing it down on the candle. But you did. 

⠀⠀⠀She thinks of killing the Freys. Black Walder and Lame Walder were the first, carved into Lord Walder's pie. She face she wore was pretty and young and rounded, with brown eyes and sunkissed skin, and nobody looked twice at her. She almost wished someone would recognise her, as bizarre as it was. She wanted to strike fear in their hearts as Lord Walder had to Robb and her mother. But plenty of time for that later. She killed Lord Walder with her face, the face of Arya Stark, and her name tasted like honey on her tongue when she slides her blade across his throat. She kills the rest, too, but they matter less, somehow. 

⠀⠀⠀And finally she thinks of now, of Winterfell, standing in front of Sansa. Her elder sister stares down at her with the same look of disdain she wore when she was twelve years old and Arya had hidden her sewing needles. And stares her down as best she can.

⠀⠀⠀"You never would've survived what I survived," Sansa says, and Arya's heart jumps.

⠀⠀⠀She forces herself to think as she opens her mouth to reply.

⠀⠀⠀"I guess we'll never know."

**Author's Note:**

> this scene honestly made me so angry & the fandom AND d&d really need to stop underexaggerating what Arya has been through :))


End file.
